Semper Paratus
by snarkypants
Summary: Recovery is Relative. Pike/Number One. Don't read if quasi-domestic-violence situations are a trigger; however, if that's not a trigger, don't be scared off. The situation is neither gratuitous nor graphic, and there ain't no bad guys.


**Semper Paratus **by snarkypants

Number One was never imprudent, never rash; she thought through her actions and her words. She made decisions quickly and sensibly, and this ability had in no small measure carried her on a steady trajectory through the ranks of Starfleet, resulting in her own command. If, outside of combat, she was rarely surprising, she was also rarely surprised.

So when she found herself sitting hard on her backside in the kitchen, her lip split, the tang of blood in her mouth, she was naturally at a loss as to how she had arrived there.

Standing over her, Pike was so white she couldn't tell where his t-shirt ended and his neck began. His face was frozen in horror, but his left hand was still clenched in a fist, the knuckles swelling.

"Wha' happen'?" she asked. Her lips felt rubbery and grossly distended and she had to work at forming the words.

"Jesus, One," he said, and his hands began to shake. His physical balance, often tenuous since the Narada, failed him, and he sagged to the floor.

"Chris?"

"Baby. I'm so sorry." He reached out to her, but apparently thought better of it. His hands dropped limply to his lap.

The shock was fading, and her jaw was beginning to throb. The tile was cold and hard beneath her.

This, then, is what had happened: she had come into the kitchen and found Chris standing at the sink, drinking a glass of water.

After long, grueling months of therapy, he was walking, without as much as a cane for support. The therapist had confided to One that Chris might even be running in a few months. So far he had surpassed everyone's expectations… everyone's but his own.

He was perspiring, still dressed in his physical therapy gear, his hair handsomely mussed and dark with sweat.

On an impulse born of pride and tenderness, she had walked up behind him and put her arms around his waist, and with the lightning-quick reflexes of his younger self he had whirled, his elbow catching her in the belly, his fist connecting with her mouth, and down she went.

"Do you want to call Security, or should I?" he asked in a leaden tone, bringing her back to the present.

She cleared her throat. "Don't be ridiculous," One said. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, spreading a rusty smear up her cheek; he winced.

"I'll call, then." He pushed himself slowly to his feet.

"Chris, _stop_," she said. She stood up, willing herself to ignore a wave of dizziness. His image swam in front of her before she blinked and shook herself.

"I hit you."

"Not like it's the first time; you've still got one hell of a left hook, Admiral," Number One said, rubbing her jaw.

He visibly recoiled. "That was _sparring_. This was—"

"Was what? Abuse?" She laughed, but it came out like choking. "I startled you, and you reacted like any reasonable person after a trauma."

His expression darkened. "Don't defend it."

She gave him the level, cut-the-bullshit look that terrified ensigns and sent seasoned commanders tugging nervously at the neckbands of their uniform tops. "Chris, would you really rather be an abusive partner than someone with posttraumatic stress?"

He glared at her; if he were a very different person he might have hit her again, but this time with malice aforethought. She had faced threats before, though, from beings who had truly wished her ill, and frankly Pike wasn't in their class. At least not when it came to her.

He made a disgusted sound and swept his hand across the countertop, sending a crockery container flying. She flinched before she could stop herself. The container ricocheted off the wall and shattered on the floor, spraying a kilo of perfectly roasted coffee beans across the sand-colored limestone. He shot her the look that she knew far too well—the look that said "I don't know what the hell to do now, so I'm doing _this_, and I'm _going_ with it"—and stomped out the kitchen door.

She sighed. He could damn well clean up the kitchen himself when he calmed down and decided to come back inside, she thought. Her pulse pounded in her split lip, and she went to the bedroom to use the home regen unit the physical therapist had issued them for Chris's use.

She finished healing her lip and the blossoming bruise on her jaw, washed off the blood, and then lay on their bed, studying the planks and adobe that made the ceiling, waiting.

* * *

The bedroom was one of a mere four rooms in the cottage they shared at Starfleet Medical Rehabilitation Campus on the peaceful, sun-drenched Baja Peninsula. The other rooms were a small living room, a smaller bathroom, and the kitchen. Close quarters, but not nearly as close as living on board a ship, and there was the capacious garden patio, not to mention proximity to the beach, to compensate for the relative lack of space.

Now that Chris was making literal strides in his convalescence, One's return to full duty would not be far behind. The 'fleet needed all able-bodied and experienced officers to return to their posts regardless of their domestic entanglements. It hadn't been an easy few months but she would miss this place when she returned to the Yorktown and Chris moved, presumably into an office at HQ.

After some time the garden door hissed open and shut and Chris's sneakers crunched on the coffee beans. His progress was slow, but it wasn't due to his injury; it was because he was afraid she was gone, and he wanted to delay the inevitable.

"I'm in here, Chris," she called. The footsteps stopped, and then resumed their glacial pace.

He opened the door, not looking her in the eye. "Are you leaving me?"

"Yes, in four days, as previously discussed. Taking a new batch of cadets for a shake-down run on the Yorktown."

"That's not what I meant."

"I know what you meant, and the answer's no. Unless you _want_ me to leave you."

"I don't want you to leave me."

"And I don't want to leave." She sighed. "Chris, it's going to take time; it's natural that you're going to be hypervigilant about sudden noises or people creeping up behind you. I'll do better next time; we'll consider it an object lesson."

"One—" he began, but she cut him off.

"You've belted me harder than that before; back then you gave me hell for not blocking better."

"You weren't my girlfriend then." He grimaced, as he always did, at the word 'girlfriend' (it was a ridiculous word for people of their ages and experiences, but it was preferable to the overloaded alternatives; One thought that 'partner' sounded like a business transaction, and Chris thought that 'lover' was a little too evocative of sexual intercourse to use in company, so 'girlfriend' it was and remained).

"All the more reason for me to block better, wouldn't you say?" she asked. "Protect my pretty face and all." She fluttered her eyelashes at him; the attempt at coquetry paired with her otherwise grave expression usually made him laugh, but this time he didn't rise to the bait.

"I don't want to be that guy."

"You're not that guy; I wouldn't be with you if you were." She went to him, putting her arms around his waist and laying her head on his shoulder.

He rubbed her arms with his palms, a little gingerly at first. "I'm not the man I was before."

"No, you're not."

He waited a moment for her to continue, to attempt to buoy him with reassurance. When none was forthcoming he nudged her. "You missed your cue. Aren't you supposed to tell me that I'm better now than I was?"

She raised her head, fairly spearing him with the intensity of her gaze. "_Are_ you?" she asked, doubt almost palpable in her voice.

"_Ye_—" he began, indignant, before clamping his mouth shut and glaring at her. "I see what you did there," he muttered.

"Good." She nodded. "I would be forced to think less of you if you missed something so obvious." She kissed him to take the sting from her words.

"I'm going to have to warn my staff about it. When I return to duty."

She took a deep breath but didn't otherwise react; it was the first time he had spoken about returning to duty as anything other than a bewheeled Starfleet mascot. "Yes, you will," she murmured into the tender, pink skin of his throat.

_

* * *

_

A/N: Semper paratus

means "always ready," and is the motto for many organizations, military and otherwise; I use it here to indicate Pike's hypervigilant state of mind. I chose _paratus_ over _erectus_ (alert/upright) because _semper erectus _would seem to indicate a very different sort of fic… and I really didn't want my mailbox to go up in flames.

My personal 'canon' is that Pike is left-handed, based on numerous photos I've seen of Bruce Greenwood wearing a watch on his right wrist. Being a leftie myself, I notice these things.

My dad once had a CO who had been a POW in the Hanoi Hilton; it was common knowledge that you _never_ walked up behind the CO without somehow making him aware of it first. A former boss of mine had similar but unrelated PTSD issues, and I learned about it the hard way (by scaring the boss and getting scared in return, not by getting hit).

On a serious note, if your romantic/domestic partner is hurting you, it's not OK; Number One is a trained combat professional, and besides that she's fictional. Pike would rather chew his own arm off than hurt her, and he's fictional too. Real-life, non-fiction abuse isn't appropriate, ever. In the US, call the National Domestic Violence Hotline at 1-800-799-SAFE. (Aaand speaking of hypervigilant ::rolls eyes at self::… trying not to glamorize things.)


End file.
